Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (23 page)

'How dare you talk about our war hero like this!' admonishes Mrs Damle.

'He, a war hero? That's the greatest joke in the world. He is a bloody deserter. Ran away at the first sight of trouble in the Chhamb sector. I tell you, he is a bloody blot on Sikh Regiment. He should have had fourteen years' Rigorous Imprisonment. Unfortunately, desertion cases are closed after five years, otherwise I would have reported him even now.'

We are astounded. 'What are you saying, Colonel? He recounted to us in great detail his exploits at Chhamb. He even lost a leg in combat.'

'That's a complete lie. Let me tell you his true story, which is actually quite pathetic.' The Colonel adjusts his belt. 'Balwant Singh was not in a good frame of mind when war broke out, because his wife had just given birth to his first child in Pathankot. He was desperate to be with his family. So great was his longing that at the first sign of trouble in Jaurian, when Pakistan attacked with artillery in full strength, he deserted his post and ran away. He managed to reach Pathankot and hid in his ancestral house. He must have thought he had left the war far behind, but the war did not leave him. Two days after his arrival, the Pakistani Air Force strafed Pathankot air base. They didn't hit any of our planes, but two thousand-pound bombs fell on a house close to the airfield. Turned out that the house was Balwant's. His wife and infant son perished instantly in the attack and he lost a leg to shrapnel.'

'But . . . how could he re-create the scene of battle in such great detail?'

The Colonel grimaces. 'I don't know what stories he told you, but twenty-six years is a long time to read up on great battles. The bastard crawled out of the woodwork after all these years just to fool you people and earn some cheap thrills through his fake tales of valour. Meeting him has spoiled my mood completely. It has not been a great day. Goodbye.'

The Colonel shakes his head and walks away from the chawl, flanked by the tall man and the fat man. We return to the bunker. It has not been a great day for us, either. We wonder what

Balwant Singh is doing. He does not come out that evening.

* * *

They find him the next morning, in his one-room lodging in the chawl. A can of milk and a

newspaper lie untouched on his doorstep. His crutches are stacked neatly against the wall. The wooden bed has been pushed into a corner. There is an empty cup on the nightstand containing a residue of brown tea leaves. The only chair in the room lies upturned in the centre. He hangs from the ceiling fan with a pink piece of cloth tied to his neck, wearing the same olive-green uniform, his head bowed over his chest. As his limp body swings gently from side to side, the ceiling fan makes a faint creaking noise.

A police jeep arrives, its red light flashing. Constables rummage through his belongings. They chatter and gesticulate and question the neighbours rudely. A photographer takes pictures with a flashgun. A doctor in a white coat arrives with an ambulance. A big crowd gathers in front of Balwant's room.

They wheel out his body on a stretcher, covered in a crisp white sheet. The residents of the chawl stand in hushed silence. Putul and Dhyanesh and Salim and I peer diffidently from behind their backs. We stare opaquely at the dead man's body and nod, in fear and sorrow and guilt, as a liquid understanding spreads slowly through our numbed minds. Those of us for whom this was our first war, we knew then. That war was a very serious business. It took lives.

* * *

Smita is looking grim and serious.

'Where were you during the war?' I ask.

'Right here, in Mumbai,' she replies and hurriedly changes the topic. 'Let's see the next question.'

* * *

Prem Kumar swivels on his chair and addresses me. 'Mr Thomas, you have answered seven

questions correctly to win two lakh rupees. Now let us see whether you can answer the eighth question, for five hundred thousand rupees. Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Question number eight. Which is the highest award for gallantry given to the Indian armed forces? I repeat, which is the highest award for gallantry given to the Indian armed forces? Is it a) Maha Vir Chakra, b) Param Vir Chakra, c) Shaurya Chakra or d) Ashok Chakra?'

The suspenseful music commences. The time bomb starts ticking louder.

There is a buzz in the audience. They look at me with sympathy, preparing to bid goodbye to the friendly neighbourhood waiter.

'B. Param Vir Chakra,' I reply.

Prem Kumar raises his eyebrows. 'Do you know the answer, or are you just guessing?'

'I know the answer.'

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes.'

The drumming reaches a crescendo. The correct answer flashes.

'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct!' shouts Prem Kumar. The audience is exultant. There is sustained clapping and cries of 'Bravo!'

I smile. Prem Kumar doesn't.

Smita nods her head in understanding.

LICENCE TO KILL

There are many hazards of walking in an absentminded manner on the roads of Mumbai. You

can inadvertently slip on a banana peel and go skidding. You can find that without warning your foot has sunk into a pile of soft dog shit. You can be rudely jolted by a wayward cow coming from behind and butting into your backside. Or a long-lost friend you had been avoiding meeting can emerge miraculously from the chaotic traffic and suddenly hug you.

That is what happened to me on Saturday 17 June, in front of Mahalaxmi Racecourse, when I bumped into Salim Ilyasi. After five years.

* * *

When I first arrived in Mumbai from Agra three months ago, I had resolved not to contact Salim.

It was a difficult decision. I had missed him during my years with the Taylors in Delhi and my travails in Agra, and to be in the same city as him and not see him was indeed a heavy burden to carry. But I was determined not to involve him in my plan of getting on to the quiz show.

'Mohammad!' Salim exclaimed the moment he saw me. 'What are you doing in Mumbai? When

did you come? Where have you been all these years?'

Meeting a long-lost friend is similar, I suppose, to eating a favourite dish after a long time. You don't know how your taste buds will react after all this while, whether the dish will still taste as good as it used to. I met Salim after five long years with mixed emotions. Would our reunion be as warm as our friendship used to be? Would we still be as honest with each other?

We didn't speak much at first, but sat down on a nearby bench. We didn't listen to the squawking of the seagulls circling overhead. We took no notice of the little boys playing football on the road. We didn't see the throng of devotees going to the Haji Ali
dargah.
We just hugged each other and wept. For the times we had spent together, for the time we had lost. And then we talked about all that had happened in between. Rather, Salim talked and I listened.

* * *

Salim has become taller and more handsome. At sixteen, he looks as good as any Bollywood

film star. The hard life of the city has not corrupted him like it corrupted me. He still loves Hindi films and worships the stars of Bollywood (with the obvious exception of Armaan Ali). He still goes to the shrine of Haji Ali every Friday to offer prayers. And, most importantly, the prediction of the palmist is finally about to come true. He no longer works as a
dabbawallah,
delivering tiffins to Mumbai's middle class, but has enrolled himself in an expensive acting school where he is learning to become an actor.

'Do you know who is paying for my acting classes?' he asks me.

'No.'

'It is Abbas Rizvi.'

'The famous producer who has made all those blockbusters?'

'Yes, the same. He has offered me the role of a hero in his next film, which will be launched in two years' time, when I have turned eighteen. Till then he is getting me trained.'

'But that's wonderful, Salim. How did all this happen?'

'It is a very long story.'

'No story can be long enough for me, Salim. Quick, now, tell me from the beginning.' So this is the story narrated by Salim, in his own words.

* * *

'After you went away so suddenly, I was left all alone in the chawl. I continued with my life as a
dabbawallah
for four more years, collecting and delivering tiffins, but I also continued to dream of becoming an actor.

'One day, while I was collecting a tiffin from the wife of a customer called Mukesh Rawal, I noticed that the walls of his house were decorated with pictures of himself with famous film stars. I asked Mrs Rawal whether her husband was in the film industry. She said he was just a sales officer in a pharmaceutical company, but worked in films part-time, as a junior artist.

'I was amazed to hear this. I rushed to Mukesh Rawal's office the same afternoon and asked him if I too could become a junior artist like him. Mukesh looked at me and laughed. He said I was too young to become an actor, but that sometimes they had roles for schoolboys and street kids, for which I might be right. He promised to refer me to Pappu Master, the junior-artist supplier for whom he worked, and asked me to provide him with several glossy eight-by-six photographs of myself in a variety of poses. If Pappu liked my photos, he might choose me for a bit role in a film. Mukesh told me that for a junior artist, acting skills were not required, but I had to look smart in a suit, menacing in a ruffian's outfit and charming in a school uniform. He insisted that I get the photos professionally taken at a studio.

'That night I couldn't sleep. I went to a photographer's shop the very next morning and enquired about the cost of the pictures. The photographer quoted me an astronomical sum, almost equal to my full month's earnings. I told him,
"Arrey baba,
I can't afford so much money." So he advised me to buy one of those cheap, disposable cameras and take my own pictures, which he could then blow up. I did as he told me. I bought a camera and requested passersby to take my picture.

I sat on somebody's motorcycle in front of Churchgate and tried to look as cool as Amitabh Bachchan in the film
Muqaddar ka Sikandar.
I posed sitting on a horse on Chowpatty Beach, just like Akshay Kumar in
Khel.
I stood in front of Sun 'n' Sand hotel, posing like Hrithik Roshan in

Kaho Na Pyar Hai.
I held an empty Johnny Walker bottle in my hands and tried to look as drunk as Shahrukh Khan in
Devdas.
I grinned in front of Flora Fountain like Govinda does in all his films. I got almost twenty pictures taken of myself, but the roll took thirty-six and I had to finish it before I could get the pictures developed. So I decided to take pictures of interesting buildings and people. I took pictures of Victoria Terminus and the Gateway of India, I clicked a beautiful girl in Marine Drive, snapped an old man in Bandra and even took a close-up of a donkey in Colaba. My final picture was of a swarthy, middle-aged man in Mahim sitting on a bench and smoking. His fingers were adorned with different-coloured rings. Only after I had pressed the shutter button did I realize whose picture I had taken, and I froze.'

'What do you mean?' I ask Salim. 'Was he a famous film star? Was it that swine Armaan Ali?'

'No, Mohammad, it was a man you know equally well. It was Mr Babu Pillai, alias Maman. The man who brought us here from Delhi and almost blinded us.'

'Oh, my God!' I cover my mouth. 'Did he recognize you?'

'Yes, he did. "You are Salim, aren't you? You are the boy who ran away from me. But you won't get away from me this time," he cried and lunged at me.

'I didn't even think. I just turned around and ran towards the main road. A bus was pulling away and I jumped on it just in time, leaving Maman panting behind me on the road.

'I was sitting on the bus, thinking what a lucky escape I'd had, when guess what happened?'

'What?'

'The bus stopped at a traffic light and a group of ruffians wearing head bands and armed with swords, spears and tridents got on.'

'Oh, my God! Don't tell me it was a mob.'

'Yes, it was. I realized then that we had landed in the middle of a communal riot. The wreckage of a smouldering vehicle lay directly in front of us. Shops had been reduced to rubble, splashes of blood could be seen on the pavement, stones, sticks and slippers littered the street. The driver immediately bolted from the bus. My mind went numb with fear. I had thought I would never have to see such a horrifying sight again. I heard sounds which I thought I had forgotten. My mother's shrieks and my brother's cries echoed in my ears. I began shivering. The ruffians told everyone on the bus that a Muslim mob had set fire to Hindu houses and now they were out for revenge. I learnt later that the whole trouble had started over a simple quibble about a water tap in a slum. But people's minds were so full of hate that within hours buses were being burnt, houses were being torched and people were being butchered.

' "Each one of you say your name. All those who are Hindu are allowed to step down from the bus, all those who are Muslim should keep sitting,' the ruffians announced. One by one the trembling passengers said their names. Arvind. Usha. Jatin. Arun. Vasanti. Jagdish. Narmada.

Ganga. Milind. The bus started emptying. The ruffians watched each of the passengers with hawk-like eyes. They checked the vermilion in the partings of the ladies' hair, asked some of the men further questions to establish their religion, and even forced a little boy to open his shorts. I was nauseated by this barbaric display, but was also quivering in my seat. Finally, only two passengers were left on the bus: me and a man sitting two seats behind me.

'You know, Mohammad, in films when such a scene happens, the hero stands up and appeals to the humanity of the mob. He tells them that the blood of both Hindus and Muslims is the same colour. That it doesn't say on our face which religion we belong to. That love is preferable to hate. I knew so many dialogues, any of which I could have recited before those ruffians, but when you actually stand face to face with such savagery, you forget all words. You only think of one thing. Life. I wanted to live, because I had to fulfil my dream of becoming an actor. And now the dream and the dreamer were both going to be set ablaze in a Mumbai bus.